A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings 2 #2)(7)

“Ruby-Jane, please, do not be bamboozled. You remember how the whole family snuck out of town, a scandal chasing after them?” Ginger took a small bite of pizza, her appetite a bit frosted by her own attitude toward Tom. “Like father, like son.”

“What was that all about, anyway?” Ruby-Jane said.

“Who knows? Who cares?” Ginger didn’t. At least she liked to think she didn’t. What kind of sane woman still carried pain about a boy standing her up over a decade ago?

“I care. My future husband might be Rosebud’s next big preacher.” Ruby-Jane slapped another slice of pizza on her plate. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re still mad at him for leaving town without telling you.”

“He didn’t just leave. He vanished.”

“Ging, they didn’t vanish. We heard they moved to Atlanta.”

“But not from him directly. I thought we were friends, you know? But not a peep out of him until twenty minutes ago when he walked in here.” Ginger pushed away from the table, sad she’d lost her appetite for Antony’s pizza. “Can we get back to painting?”

“So you are still mad.” Ruby-Jane wiped the corners of her mouth with a wadded-up napkin. “It was twelve years ago.”

“I’m not mad.” But she was and it bothered her to her core. “Come on, let’s get back to work. I want to get at least one wall painted before I leave on Friday.”

“You know he’s Eric’s best man. He’s going to be around allll weekend at this Maynard-James wedding extravaganza.”

“I heard. I was standing here when he said it. So what’s your point?”

“I think you’re into him. Still. And you’re mad at him. Still.”

“You’ve inhaled too many paint fumes. I’m not into him. I’m not mad at him.” Ginger headed into the shop, removing her apron and reaching for the slightly paint-stained cloak.

Yet, the thumping of her pulse and the anxious flutter in her chest told her otherwise. She was hurt, really. Worse, she might still be into him. Seeing him kicked open a door she thought she’d bolted and barred.

“You know what, Ginger?” Ruby-Jane said, entering the shop behind her, carrying a piece of pizza and her painting cloak. “Not everything is about your past, growing up in the trailer park, or your scars.”

Ginger took up her roller brush. “I never said it was.”

“When I see you cold and stiff with Tom, being brusque, I know you have feelings for him. Still. But you see yourself as that trailer park girl with the burn scars, not good enough for anyone.”

“I am that trailer park girl.” Ginger pushed back her sleeve. “And I’m still very scarred. Look, he’s a dude who came in for a haircut. End of story.”

“A dude who came in for a haircut?” Ruby-Jane laughed, her mouth bulging with pizza, her brown eyes sparkling. “Ginger, you should’ve seen your face when I said he might be my future husband. You went pale, then pink, then green.”

“You are such a storyteller.” Ginger aimed her roller toward the ceiling, rising up on her tiptoes to cover as much of the wall as she could without a ladder. She’d have to get the stepladder from the shed out back to cut in at the top. “Did you check with Michele and Casey to make sure they can handle the appointments for this weekend?”

“Talked to them yesterday, boss. And you know I’ll be around to help out.” Ruby-Jane took up her own paintbrush. “Don’t fall back into high school, Ginger, okay? I like the confident salon owner who knows she’s a fabulous stylist.” RJ tugged on Ginger’s scarf. “Even though you still hide behind this kind of getup.”

Ginger moved away from RJ’s touch, settling the scarf back into place, concealing the rough, puckered texture of her skin. “Some things will never change.”

But other things could. Like the interior of this shop. Like her reputation as a swag shop owner in Rosebud’s revitalized downtown, the hometown of Alabama’s governor.

Like not letting men like Tom Wells Jr., preacher or otherwise, get to her. Men like him married waif-like blondes with God-kissed, sculpted faces, diamondesque smiles, and pristine, smooth skin.

“You know, Ginger, since I’ve known you, you’ve hidden behind long sleeves and scarves. I get it.” Ruby-Jane eased the roller up and down the wall. “You aren’t comfortable with your burn wounds. Just be sure you don’t cover up too much and keep a man like Tom Wells out of your life. You never know, he might be your passion’s flame.”

Oh Ruby-Jane. Didn’t she understand? Longing for that kind of flame, the flame of love and passion, was the most terrifying fire of all.




Wednesday afternoon, Tom swept the rough, wide boards of the old sanctuary floor with a wide straw broom he’d found in the storeroom. Like most of the church’s furnishings, the broom was probably from the 1950s. Starting a new church with only enough funds to pay his meager salary meant he was janitor and secretary as well as pastor, preacher, and counselor.

Dust drifted up from the floor and swirled in the dappled sunlight falling through the transom over the stained glass windows.

He hummed a song from last night’s worship practice, his chest vibrating with the melody, the lyrics skimming through his spirit.